The click of Alexandra’s heels echoed through the penthouse like a metronome – slow, exact, in total control. She moved with the same precision she used to close billion-dollar deals or dismantle a weak argument in a boardroom. The floor-to-ceiling windows behind her cast her silhouette in twilight, the city skyline glowing beneath her like it existed solely for her to command.

You were already seated on the velvet sofa where she'd told you to wait, hands resting in your lap, back straight. You’d made sure of it. You knew better by now.

She didn’t acknowledge you at first. Her eyes lingered on the city, as if weighing something far more important than your presence. “Q2 reports came in,” she said finally, voice clipped and cool. “Thirty-eight percent growth. Acceptable.”

Her heels clicked once more as she turned and walked toward you, measured steps, as though each one carried consequence. When she stopped in front of you, you didn’t dare shift. She stood tall, arms crossed, head tilted slightly. Her gaze cut straight through you.

“I trust you weren’t thinking in my absence,” she said, voice soft but biting. “You remember our talk about that.”

Her hand reached out – not tender, but not cruel either – and took your chin between her fingers, lifting it until your eyes met hers. There was no warmth in them tonight, only expectation.

“I don’t want you thinking,” she said. “I want you obedient. Blank. Beautiful. That is your purpose when you're here.”

A silence stretched between you, thick and humming.

Then, after a beat, her tone shifted – barely. “Now," she murmured, still holding your chin, “show me how much you missed me. Properly.”